


It's Not the Falling (It's the Landing)

by WhatIsAir



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Sherlock special spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, The Abominable Bride, john's emotional constipation, mentions of drug use, sherlock's emotional constipation, some crack i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-02
Packaged: 2018-05-11 04:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5614063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIsAir/pseuds/WhatIsAir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock frowns as a thought occurs to him. “Does that mean I could have bloody well died for nothing?”</p>
<p>John’s smile fades. “Um. Hypothetically speaking, yes.”</p>
<p>“John Hamish Watson!” Sherlock snaps, abandoning all dignity as he scrambles gracelessly off the bed and advances towards John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not the Falling (It's the Landing)

**Author's Note:**

> the following story DOES contain spoilers for the christmas special - don't say i didn't warn you (:
> 
> basically my take on what exactly was going through sherlock's head when he said goodbye to john before getting on the jet, now that we know he was high as a frickin' kite the whole time

The hum of the jet engine behind him is a distraction; Sherlock can feel his hands shaking, though whether that stems from nerves or the drugs he took, he doesn’t know. He tucks them behind his back, clears his throat, turns to Mycroft.

“Since this is likely the last conversation I’ll have with John Watson,” Sherlock says, then stops. The words scrape painfully against his throat. He grits his teeth; there’s a pity in Mycroft’s expression that Sherlock can’t stand.

“Would you mind if –” Sherlock pauses to collect himself. His fists clench behind his back; there’s sweat beading at his temple. (Surely Mycroft can tell how high he is right now. The leaden weight of the List sits in his breast pocket, weighing him down.) “– if John and I took a moment?”

 “Of course,” says Mycroft, the gravity of the situation accentuated by the readiness with which he agrees.

Sherlock waits until Mycroft’s out of earshot before speaking. “William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” is the non-sequitur his drug-addled brain comes up with.

Three feet across from him on the airfield, John stands, looking (adorably) confused. Very much like how he was the first time Sherlock had ever deduced for him, in the cab on their way to Lauriston Gardens. Now the amazement has worn thin, but it’s been replaced – Sherlock can see the fondness, the exasperation, the amusement, written in the creases of John’s face, in the slight downturn of his lips.

“Sorry?”

“That’s the whole of it,” Sherlock clarifies, “If you’re looking for baby names.”

Searing pain lances through his chest as Sherlock looks across the field and catches Mary’s eye. Her being here is a visceral reminder of the part she plays in John’s life, and knowing that John is going to be in good hands doesn’t ease the ache in his chest the slightest. ( _Or it could just be the cocaine taking its toll_ , Sherlock’s mind helpfully reminds him. _It won’t be long now, not at the rate you’re going._ )

John chuckles, some of the sadness leaving his eyes as they crinkle in amusement. “We’ve had a scan. We’re pretty sure it’s going to be girl.”

“Oh.” There it is again, the vice around his heart, tightening until Sherlock feels like he might explode. He feels moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes and tilts his head back, blinking rapidly until the danger passes.

John shuffles his feet, looking as awkward as he’d done when he walked in on Janine kissing him. He doesn’t quite seem capable of looking Sherlock in the eye; he addresses a point over Sherlock’s left shoulder. “Actually, I – I can’t think of a single thing to say.”

“John, there’s something –” Sherlock says, and something in his voice must alert John to his current state, because John’s gaze snaps to meet his. Sherlock releases a shaky breath; behind his back, he’s gripping his own wrists so tightly his hands have gone numb. “– something I should say, something I’ve meant to say always, and then never have.”

Sherlock steels himself, tries to ignore how fast his heart is beating, how hard his hands are trembling. (He wants to tell John, wants to grab John by the shoulders and tell him what he’s done, tell him this is _the last fucking time you’ll ever see me alive, because I’ve shot myself full of coke and morphine and god-knows-what, and maybe my death won’t matter if you’re happy with Mary, but right now I’m dying and I’m terrified you won’t know how much I care for you, have cared for you,_ will _care for you until my last breath, because you’re everything to me, even if I’m not the same to you_.)

He takes a deep breath, looking into John’s eyes.  “Since it’s unlikely we’ll ever meet again,” he says, each word leaving his throat scraped raw, his heart ache, “I might as well say it now.”

John looks at him, his expression a mixture of sadness, regret and apprehension.

Sherlock wonders what John’s reaction would be, if he does tell him. His Mind Palace plays out the three possible scenarios:

  1. John being horrified, then furious at Sherlock for ‘throwing your bloody life away, Sherlock, and for what? To prove a _point_?’
  2. John being horrified, then schooling his face into indifference, and going back to his life with Mary once Sherlock boards the plane
  3. John being horrified, then furious, and after yelling at him at length because ‘dammit, Sherlock, I thought you were supposed to be the clever one’, grabbing Sherlock by the lapels and furiously kissing him right there on the tarmac, declaring his undying love for Sherlock and how he ‘can’t s _tand_ the thought of losing you, not again’



Although, Sherlock has to admit, forcing himself out of his Mind Palace, option 3 doesn’t seem terribly likely, given what he knows (and has observed) of John over the years.

“John, I –” Sherlock begins, his courage failing with every word. He tightens his fists, until he feels the sharp sting of his fingernails cutting into the flesh of his palms. He relents, takes the coward’s way out, as is his wont. “Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”

Relief and disappointment flicker over John’s face, there and gone so quickly Sherlock almost misses them. John settles for chuckling, the amusement evident in his expression as he says, “It’s not.”

Sherlock smiles. This is familiar ground; he slips back into the skin of the man he was five years ago, when he’d first met John Watson at the lab in St. Bart’s and was trying desperately to impress him, to make him stay.

“It was worth a try,” he grins, even though he hasn’t tried at all. (The muscles in his face hurt; smiling isn’t something he’s done in a while.)

“We’re not naming our daughter after you,” John says adamantly, eyes sparkling with something like fondness. It’s the closest they’re going to get to how they were five years ago, to high-speed chases down London backalleys and dead cabbies and dinners at 2am.

“I think it could work,” Sherlock says gamely. He unclasps his hands, and hopes John doesn’t notice the minute tremours as he extends his right hand to John.

“To the very best of times, John.”

They shake, and Sherlock hungrily devours the moment, the last chance he’ll ever have to feel John’s touch, to lay eyes on John. (He catalogues the callouses on John’s hands from his days in Afghanistan, the firm assuredness of his grip, and files everything away in the foyer of his Mind Palace, determined to sear it all into his memory, his hard drive.)

Sherlock lets go of John’s hand, turns and makes for the gangway, feeling the weight of John’s gaze on him the whole time.

-

The first thing Sherlock does once he’s on the plane is look up John’s blog.

He doesn’t know why he does this; it probably makes him a masochist of some sort, to go digging through his tortured emotions, to rub salt into the wound, as it were.

He scrolls down, down to the bottom of the page, and finds himself reading John’s first entry about him. He leans back in the chair and lets the words – so banal and annoying to him five years ago – wash over him, a soothing balm against the tumultuous waves of anguish he feels at never seeing John again.

_It’s mad. I think he might be mad_ , blog-John had said of him, all those years ago. _He was certainly arrogant and really quite rude but also strangely likeable. He was charming._ Looking at the words, Sherlock smiles helplessly; the tears he’s been holding back run down his cheeks.

The idling engine roars to life and the jet begins taxiing down the runway. Sherlock looks out the window, unable to help himself. John and Mary are standing together, their arms linked. Mycroft stands a little ways apart from them. His hand is raised in farewell.

The jet takes off and Sherlock tears his eyes away from John, his figure a fading speck on the ground below.

He tightens his grip on his phone, focussing on the words displayed on the screen: _So tomorrow, we’re off to look at a flat. Me and the madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes._

He closes his eyes and hears John telling him he’s s _trangely likeable_ and _charming_ , that he’ll never leave him even if turns out to be mad, because it’ll always be _the two of us against the rest of the world_ – _me and Sherlock Holmes,_ always – _how’s that sound?_

“Goodbye, John,” Sherlock murmurs, thinking of the List in his pocket, of the devastation on John’s face when he hears the news. “I’m sorry.”

-

Five minutes later the jet turns around because England needs Sherlock, and Sherlock withdraws into the deepest recesses of his Mind Palace in an attempt to solve the case.

He solves Emelia Ricoletti’s case, gets Sir Eustace killed in the process, and predicts what Moriarty’s next move will be in this game of theirs. Throughout it all John stays a constant, steady presence by his side (not counting the time he moved out of their rooms to live with Mary), and successfully banishes Moriarty, freeing Sherlock from the clutches of his own mind.

He surfaces to a hand on his shoulder and John’s concerned face, hovering inches from his own.

Relief crashes into him, wave after wave of it until he’s drowning. (His chest is still constricted and he feels two seconds away from a heart attack, but he’s never been happier to see John.)

“Miss me?”

John’s eyes are red-rimmed and his voice is strained. “You utter berk,” he says with feeling. “Got me scared for a moment there.”

Mycroft, in his typically annoying fashion, has Sherlock hand over the List. Mycroft passes it to John and Sherlock watches as John’s eyes widen in horror.

“You can’t possibly have taken all that in the past five minutes, Sherlock!” John says vehemently. His eyes are scanning Sherlock, flicking over his body as though he can stop the drugs wreaking havoc in Sherlock’s system. (Angina seizes him once more and he grimaces, turning his face to the window to hide it.)

“He was high before he got on the plane,” is Mycroft’s helpful input. Sherlock imagines punching his brother square in the jaw.

In the silence that follows, John’s disappointment is deafening. Sherlock closes his eyes and desperately wishes he were back in his Mind Palace, comfortably ensconced by a fireplace in an alternate timeline where John doesn’t leave. (Or even if he does, that he’ll always come back to help Sherlock fight his demons.)

Mycroft and John are talking, taking turns berating him for his lapse in judgement. Sherlock lets their words fade into the background as, keeping his eyes shut, he lets himself fall.

-

He’s standing atop St. Bart’s, phone discarded and arms outstretched, willing himself not to look at John standing below, knowing that if he does, he’ll never jump.

_Goodbye, John._ He falls.

He’s standing balanced on the edge of a precipice, the roar of the Reichenbach Falls deafening beside him.

He turns, and there’s John, standing not three feet behind him, sporting that ridiculous moustache and 19th-century garb.

“Are you sure this is the way out?” Victorian-John shouts at him, over the thundering wall of water.

“Not really,” Sherlock admits. He glances down; he can’t see the water at the bottom. It looks like a never-ending freefall.

Sherlock looks at John, at his unassuming form and out-of-place moustache, and remembers him sending Moriarty over the edge mere minutes ago.

John nods at him, and it feels right. Because this time John isn’t standing across the road, watching Sherlock fall to his death. This time John’s by his side, and besides, what could go wrong?

“I’m a storyteller,” John tells him, “I know when I’m in one.”

Sherlock decides to trust John, because he can always trust John, even if he’s just a construct in his head.

_Goodbye, John,_ he thinks, just in case.

He spreads his arms and falls.

-

The landing is the most physically painful thing he’s ever had to endure.

Sherlock wakes to find John leaning over his prone form. John’s face has gone pale and the hand he places on Sherlock’s shoulder to help him sit up is noticeably shaking. Sherlock winces and leans back against the headrest; his insides feel liquefied and it’s like his chest has been caught in an iron, vice-like grip. He glances round; Mary is conspicuously absent. It’s just the two of them and Mycroft in the room.

“Could –” Sherlock’s voice is hoarse and breaks after the first word; he clears his throat. “Could John and I take a moment?”

He very carefully avoids looking at Mycroft as he says so, aware of the noticeable tell in his hammering pulse, in the hands clasped in his lap that can’t seem to stop trembling. Thankfully Mycroft keeps his mouth shut and quietly exits the room, leaving him alone with John.

“Listen, John,” Sherlock says, the moment the door clicks shut behind his brother, because apparently overdosing on cocaine and almost-dying works wonders for lowering one’s inhibitions, “What I said before – I meant it.”

“Meant what?” John asks carefully. One of his hands still rests on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock imagines the warmth from his hand seeping through his suit jacket, branding him so that wherever he goes, John does, too.

“When I said it’s unlikely we’ll ever see each other again,” Sherlock clarifies. “I meant it – I thought that was the last time you’d ever see me alive.”

A muscle in John’s jaw works. (Sherlock wonders what John’s not saying.) “You bastard,” he finally settles on, voice low but steadily increasing in volume as he continues, “You – _prick_ , how could you? Do you have _any_ idea what it was like for me when you went and bloody jumped off St. Barts’ roof? I mourned – for months, a whole bloody year, and then you show up like the right ray of sunshine you are, and I just –”

John breaks off, voice catching in his throat. “– I just can’t lose you again, Sherlock,” he says lowly, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s shoulder, so hard it verges on painful. (Sherlock revels in every moment of the pain because it means John’s here, he’s not leaving.)

“I –” Sherlock closes his eyes, opens them again. “I never meant to hurt you, John. I was selfish, I thought only of myself when I injected. You have Mary now, I didn’t think my being gone would – affect your life, very much.”

John lets loose a somewhat hysterical laugh. He wipes tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. “If by _affecting my life_ you mean bloody destroying it. Seriously, Sherlock, you might as well tell me next time you’re planning on doing something so dramatic. I’d join you, you know. ‘Detective and blogger plummet to death in mysterious joint-suicide.’ That’ll be the headlines the next day.”

“Don’t joke,” Sherlock says sharply, whipping round to glare at John. “Don’t – joke about that. It’s – incredibly distressing.”

(In his mind’s eye he sees himself standing across the road, looking up at St. Bart’s and seeing John perched on the rooftop, arms outstretched and ready to fall.)

“Oh, so the thought of my hypothetical death is _incredibly distressing_ for you, is it?” John snaps, venom in his voice. He looks angrier than Sherlock’s ever seen him, and that’s including the time he came back from the practice and found Sherlock chainsmoking in the middle of their living room.

“How would you feel, Sherlock,” John says quietly, “if I just threw my life away for no good reason –”

“I had a perfectly valid reason,” Sherlock argues, just for the sake of it, “It would have given you and Mary the closure you needed to start your new life of domestic bliss.”

John blinks, looking highly offended. “In _what_ way, Sherlock, would killing yourself have given me and my wife _closure_?”

“I was dead when you first started dating, then I came back and ruined your proposal – sorry about that, by the way. I thought I might as well make it easier and remove myself from the equation –”

 “Sherlock,” John cuts across him. He weighs his words carefully, then says, “Tell me honestly, _why_ did you overdose?”

“I –” Sherlock stops, thrown off guard by the question. Surely the answer must be obvious, even to the dullest of creatures. John would have to be incredibly blind not to know. He narrows his eyes at John, and decides to test the waters. “Because I – _care_ for you, John. Surely you must know that.”

John makes an abortive gesture with his free hand – it hovers over Sherlock’s knee before falling back to John’s side. “Yes, of course I know,” John says gently, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder, “And I do for you.”

“No, you don’t,” Sherlock says forcefully, shoulders tense and shaking as he struggles out of John’s grasp.

John looks taken aback. “Don’t what?”

“ _Care for me_ , the same way I do for you,” Sherlock spits, watching as John’s eyes widen in shock and he opens his mouth, presumably to defend himself. “Don’t bother. I don’t need your pity, John. I don’t want to hear your empty platitudes and have you look at me like I’m made of glass and I most certainly do not want you to tell me it’s going to be fine because _it’s not_ , John, and it never will be!”

“Sherlock, I –”

“You want to know why I shot myself full of drugs before I got on this jet, John?” Sherlock barrels on, anger (at himself for being a coward; at John for marrying Mary) rising within him like a tidal wave. “Because I wanted you to be _happy_ –” he spits the word out like it’s poison, “– because you could only be happy with Mary if I was gone, and since there is no universe in which I can fathom being able to live knowing you’re married to her, I decided on what I thought was the best course of action.”

Sherlock stops, breathing hard, the ache in his chest a constant reminder of his failings, of the many reasons he doesn’t deserve John. He shifts, turning so he’s sitting with his back to John. “You should go,” he says flatly, emotionlessly. He feels hollow, like there’s a cavity in the centre of his chest, eating away at him. “You and Mary are better off without me.”

“Sherlock,” John says carefully, “Sherlock, look at me.”

And because he so rarely does anything else where John is concerned, Sherlock looks.

“I do care for you, a lot more than you seem to think,” John starts, licking his lips. (Sherlock’s gaze flicks down towards it. He wonders if this is a deliberate tactic, if John’s planning an ambush whilst he distracts Sherlock with his tongue.) “And, um. Mary and I weren’t sure how to tell you this, but – uh. We’re not exactly – married, anymore.”

“ _What_?” The expression on Sherlock’s face must hold certain comic potential, because John laughs, a helpless chuckle that exposes the line of his throat and Sherlock _wants_.

“Yeah, we got divorced a ways before Christmas, after the whole – um,” John mimes (rather poorly) cocking a gun and firing at Sherlock. “Oh, also because Mary’s had an affair – the baby’s not mine, either.”

“ _What_?” Sherlock splutters. His world tilts on its axis and something dangerously close to resembling hope blooms in his chest. (It eases the pain a little.) “How did I not _see_ that you two weren’t – that’s impossible.”

“I think you mean _improbable_ ,” John smirks. “Guess Mary and I are just great actors. I mean, we managed to fool even the great Sherlock Holmes.”

(The weight on his chest eases. It almost feels like he can breathe normally again.)

Sherlock frowns as a thought occurs to him. “Does that mean I could have bloody well died for nothing?”

John’s smile fades. “Um. Hypothetically speaking, yes.”

“John _Hamish_ Watson!” Sherlock snaps, abandoning all dignity as he scrambles gracelessly off the bed and advances towards John. He backs up until he hits the nearest wall.

“Sher – what –”

“Well, since you’re the reason I could have died in a terribly undramatic fashion, I’m going to make up for lost time, and you’re going to _help_ me,” Sherlock says, crowding close and tilting his head down.

John blinks up at him, golden lashes fanning cerulean blue. “Help you?”

“Really, John,” Sherlock sighs, rolling his eyes, “If I wanted what I said parroted back at me, I’d go to Lestrade. _He_ certainly appears incapable of expressing no other sentiment than –”

“Oh, for God’s sake –” John mutters, which is all the warning Sherlock gets before John’s hands are around his neck and John’s mouth is on his, and the rest of Sherlock’s words are lost, swallowed up in the non-existent space between them as they kiss.

It feels strangely like falling, Sherlock thinks, when they finally break apart. The same breathless exhilaration, the same rush of adrenaline. He wonders if he should brace himself, because the landing had hurt last time round.

Then John grins up at him, rises on his toes and presses a kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock stops worrying about the drop he feels in the pit of his stomach because this – this isn’t falling.

This is flying, and John’s going to be with him every step of the way this time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> soo tell me what you guys thought if you liked it :3 comments are to me what cocaine is to sherlock (ok, maybe not the best metaphor)
> 
> hope you enjoyed reading this and that you've all been hit with feels as hard as i have after watching the abominable bride bc holy HELL did mofftiss go all out on it this time (:
> 
> (i've been sat on the internet all day rewatching/reblogging the shspesh and basically just putting off my work. i'm going to regret this later)


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